


I'm the ghost you don't forget

by Letters_run_away



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letters_run_away/pseuds/Letters_run_away
Summary: A slow midnight ride with a guest.





	I'm the ghost you don't forget

It's raining again, small droplets dancing on the window still, getting distracted and disoriented by the strong wind. It seems like it's been happening a lot nowadays but it might be just the rainy season hitting in, shows its moody face.

  
On days like this, her tiny apartment seems so empty, lacking in something, it being not another material object, she had enough of them as it is, starting from books and vinyl ending in really abstract and not really useful little knick-knacks.

  
More than the weather has taken the last bit of joy and warmth things that for the past 4 years Catherine so desperately tried to give to the place.

  
At moments like this the flat looks more like an empty shell of a room like the ones you would see in furniture shops, pretty, well put together, but dead, only made for decoration, not for a person to live in.

She shakes off her dreary thoughts away and gets out of bed, sill she ends up sitting on the bed just a moment too long staring into the clock that softly glows five twenty-five making her space out. But now the bed is no longer inviting so standing up and making few steps to the kitchen she sets up the coffee machine to make a cup of hot liquid energy with crushed, bitter notions of reality. Hoping it will bring her lost mind from the clouds to somewhere where she can grab it and neatly pack it away for work.

  
Walking back to the room Catherine picks up her work clothes, nothing fascinating, dark colours is a running theme through her wardrobe something to help her blend into the drowning grey mass of people where ideas blend and get swept away only to become a passing notion, nothing more.

  
The bathroom is just as tiny as the rest of the apartment the seemingly randomly placed tiles give it an illusion of slowly spinning. But she doesn't notice it anymore, it has become just another passing room that use to fascinate but now is just part of the daily routine.

  
As Catherine finishes adding the last touches to her look the house gets invaded by the smell of freshly made coffee, it washes over the rooms returning a tiny bit of joy into them.

  
Moody morning slowly becoming a lazy day twisted inside a sheet of grey clouds and the same old cold wind.

  
Catherine was making her way out of the flat, headphones on, keys in hand. Outside she approaches her 60s style pastel blue Pontiac, beautiful car that she so desperately hunted down and finally got. Just like a lot of things in her life after she left the clergy.

  
Sometimes she still misses those days the sense of community, the concerts. She never wanted to leave, and it was no easy task to do, but she just couldn’t see another person take up the place of the man that made her fall to her knees and forget the world...

  
Shaking her head she snaps out of her daydream and gets into the car. The ride passes as a one continuing blurb of traffic lights, people and cars.

  
Work is no different too, white walls greet her, and the smell of chemicals and unnatural cleanliness invade her nose and slowly take their time unpacking her brain out of the metaphorical box.

  
Hours slowly trickle by just like the liquid chemicals in her testing tubes, Catherine picks up one of them lifting it up to see the colour better, she notices a face from the corner of her eye, it’s blurry but yet it looks so familiar, the dark under eyes, eagle nose. Reminds her of a man…

  
Catherine shakes her head focusing on the face in the distance; now that the distorting blur is gone the face looks different yet still familiar. Just one of her colleagues, writing notes while Bunsen burner boils some concoction away. Her heart aches for what will never be as the minutes turn in to hours so does her notes into a scattered array of papers all documenting progressions and effects of components.

  
The clock hits eight and Catherine leaves work sluggishly not hurrying at all, avoiding all unneeded conversations with people. The car is there looking inviting as ever, what wrong could a midnight drive do.

  
She puts on some slow jazz music and feeling it wash over her, stress leaving and getting replaced by calmness. Focusing on the road, the rearview mirror is blurry and it seems like there is a shadow sitting in the back seat of the car. Imagination is playing its cruel tricks again making the heart bleed in sorrow. But the shadow seems to move and come closer, Catherine slows down the car, she is in some half-forgotten highway that was built to represent the greatness and excess of the country, but now it’s just a dream went by, though she never noticed that the walls where so heavily influenced by art deco style.

  
More and more it seemed like the highway was turning and shifting into something great and forgotten. She glanced at the mirror to judge if the ghostly figure was just her imagination and then it hit her.

  
The pair of mismatched eyes staring into her soul judging and awaiting her move, it was worse than a bullet to the head. He was one of those ghosts you can’t forget. The second his eyes are on you there is no way to drown out the memories.

  
Seems like only a moment has passed as Catherine looks back at the road, but now there is what looks like green mist rolling in making the already dead and rotting highway look sickly. She never notices the sharp turn that seems to come from thin air.

  
There is a photo in the paper next day showing a sleek brand new 1960s Pontiac Ventura with doors open and blood slowly dripping out, there is no evidence the place is kilometres upon kilometres away from any living area, just another cold case.

 


End file.
